tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65349666263530679432018-03-08T00:27:57.000+03:00The International MuttCam's news and thoughts on the worldCamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-39188745950379236672010-01-15T00:23:00.002+03:002010-01-15T00:27:12.926+03:00Cam Defends Moscow Nightclubs Against Anti-Alcohol CampaignHere I am defending the poor harmless Moscow nightclub industry against President Medvedev's new anti-alcoholism crusade. <div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately they edited my stellar argument that in fact nightclubs &amp; bars actually assist the fight against alcoholism by providing a safe &amp; responsible location to consume high-quality liquor. </div><div><br /></div><div>I start at 6:45 into the segment.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><object width="280" height="225"><br /> <param name="movie" value="http://rt.com/s/swf/player.swf?file=http://rt.com/v/2010-01-14/538393_alcohol.flv&amp;image=http://rt.com/s/obj/2010-01-14/ria-545504-preview.jpg&amp;controlbar=over&amp;skin=http://rt.com/s/swf/skin/stylish1.swf&amp;streamer=lighttpd"><br /> <embed src="http://rt.com/s/swf/player.swf?file=http://rt.com/v/2010-01-14/538393_alcohol.flv&amp;image=http://rt.com/s/obj/2010-01-14/ria-545504-preview.jpg&amp;controlbar=over&amp;skin=http://rt.com/s/swf/skin/stylish1.swf&amp;streamer=lighttpd" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="280" height="225"></embed><br /></object></div>Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-74534941123468384452009-03-29T20:59:00.004+04:002009-03-29T21:03:53.154+04:00New Hobby? Cam Joins a church choirFor those of you who seem to think my life in Moscow only consists of drinking and partying, my latest segment on Russia Today has me joining a church choir.<br /><br />My segment starts about 5 minutes in.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/287nBSvZBEw&amp;hl=en&amp;fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/287nBSvZBEw&amp;hl=en&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-71588588372791157482009-03-03T14:42:00.006+03:002009-03-03T15:11:53.907+03:00Miss Atom 2008: A Glowing Review<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0dhMWAfvI/AAAAAAAABeQ/LJKJjIy3E04/s1600-h/bg_new3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 105px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0dhMWAfvI/AAAAAAAABeQ/LJKJjIy3E04/s400/bg_new3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308931991826104050" border="0" /></a><br />Just when I think beauty pageants in Russia can't get more absurd and we should just drop the topic altogether (even after the greatest hits of <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2008/03/miss-gulag-whos-sexiest-inmate.html">Miss Gulag</a>, <a href="http://englishrussia.com/?p=1907">Miss Red Army</a>, and <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2007/11/miss-finance-2007-beauty-pageant.html">Miss Finance</a>- I wonder what sweet "Miss Pension Fund" is doing these days after the collapse of the ruble?), along comes something even more random: Miss Atom.<br /><br />Once again, I am not kidding, check it out for yourself at <a href="http://miss2008.nuclear.ru/index.html">http://miss2008.nuclear.ru/</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpt5mKnI/AAAAAAAABeA/2bsJmvimBw0/s1600-h/1_002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpt5mKnI/AAAAAAAABeA/2bsJmvimBw0/s200/1_002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308931038761069170" border="0" /></a>It's the beauty pageant for the women of the Russian nuclear industry, and all spheres of the sector are able to participate- mining, processing, waste storage, reactor technicians- you name it. As far as I can see- If she's exposed to radiation, she's eligible to enter (although I don't think this includes people who drink Moscow tap water).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpzX7zTI/AAAAAAAABeI/CFN5jowzxP8/s1600-h/1_011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpzX7zTI/AAAAAAAABeI/CFN5jowzxP8/s200/1_011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308931040230493490" border="0" /></a>In a burst of good news for those nuclear technicians in far-flung corners of Siberia and Tajikistan, the contest is also open to "girls working at nuclear entities of former USSR states" from 18-35 years of age.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpYzLdTI/AAAAAAAABd4/1u1Vbz-DOVI/s1600-h/1_001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpYzLdTI/AAAAAAAABd4/1u1Vbz-DOVI/s200/1_001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308931033097008434" border="0" /></a>Apparently the pageant is then opened to voters from across the Internet, and a tally is kept of the number of votes for each girl (apparently you can give one vote per distinct head, an advantage to those who got a little too close to the reactor). The resulting tally in my opinion, does somewhat eerily tie to high rad counts from radiation exposure, but let's not spoil the joy of the contestant's day with mundane health issues or observations on the state of the Russian nuclear industry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpTJhkiI/AAAAAAAABdw/6_zkTnDXLBQ/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0cpTJhkiI/AAAAAAAABdw/6_zkTnDXLBQ/s200/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308931031580119586" border="0" /></a>In a stroke of environmental genius and a credit to how the nuclear industry is working to burnish its green credentials, apparently the awards ceremony was a carbon-neutral event, given no electricity was required to light or heat the venue, thanks to the warm glow of the contestants.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Credit to Ariel B and <a href="http://englishrussia.com/?p=2318#more-2318">englishrussia.com</a>, a source of inspirational anecdotes of Russian life.</span>Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-10245468904839065172009-03-03T14:36:00.004+03:002009-03-03T14:41:36.379+03:00Local News: 12-hour Viagra-fuelled orgy ends in death<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0XZV1SS6I/AAAAAAAABdY/_A2rcM8R3Qo/s1600-h/Viagra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/Sa0XZV1SS6I/AAAAAAAABdY/_A2rcM8R3Qo/s200/Viagra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308925259864492962" border="0" /></a>Sometimes the local news is too entertaining not to share:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">12-hour Viagra-fuelled orgy ends in death</span></span><br /><br />THIS was one bet Sergey Tuganov was determined to win.<br /><br />British newspaper, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Sun</span>, reports the 28-year-old Russian man died after taking a bottle of Viagra pills for an apparent 12-hour sex romp.<br /><br />Two women told Moscow police they bet Tuganov $US4300 that he wouldn't be able to satisfy them during a non-stop half day sex marathon.<br /><br />The mechanic died of a heart attack minutes after winning the wager, Moscow police said.<br /><br />"We called emergency services but it was too late, there was nothing they could do," said one of the female participants who identified herself only as Alina.<br /><br />Medics said he most likely died from the quantity of Viagra he had ingested.<br /><br />There are 30 pills in an average 100mg bottle of Viagra.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Story courtesy of Adam R &amp; news.com.au</span>Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-10419340199717858372009-02-14T00:54:00.002+03:002009-02-16T03:24:20.486+03:00Arctic Wedding<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiroLp9w8I/AAAAAAAABcA/ID3hwvUTypU/s1600-h/IMG_0548.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiroLp9w8I/AAAAAAAABcA/ID3hwvUTypU/s200/IMG_0548.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177268040680386" border="0" /></a>I just returned to Moscow having (barely) survived that most quintessential of Russian experiences- the shotgun wedding. Not any shotgun wedding mind you, but one that required me to jump on a plane, fly due north several hours and then drive into the Arctic wilderness from Arkhangelsk to find a little-known town who's raison d'etre is building nuclear submarines (those things are HUGE), and as such until several years ago was closed to the outside world. I was the first foreigner that many people I ran into had ever met.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir23uzOaI/AAAAAAAABcg/LthhnisXKjY/s1600-h/IMG_0578.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir23uzOaI/AAAAAAAABcg/LthhnisXKjY/s200/IMG_0578.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177520390289826" border="0" /></a>Legend has it that problems with the nuclear plant at the factory is responsible for out of control birth defects, strange illnesses, and glowing, funny-smelling water flowing from the taps, but we didn't let that bother us (I don't think we drank anything but Sovetskoe Shampanskoe or vodka for the 36 hours we were there). The locals assured us that in summer the local beaches (currently buried under 10 feet of snow) are pristine and have great swimming. Apparently using icebergs as diving platforms is also a fun custom for the local children.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiyFUTtpDI/AAAAAAAABdI/hfjjY6l3UZw/s1600-h/IMG_0558.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiyFUTtpDI/AAAAAAAABdI/hfjjY6l3UZw/s200/IMG_0558.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303184365649241138" border="0" /></a>The delightful town of Severodvinsk recently celebrated its 70th birthday, yet like many small Soviet towns, it seemed somewhat stuck in the past, with the main streets of Karl Marx, Gagarin, Soviet Avenue and of course Lenin (with a rather chilly-looking Lenin peering out over the square) marking all points of the compass, and seemingly all points of life in this forgotten corner of the world.<br /><br />Undeterred, Katya, Luda &amp; I boarded a plane to this wilderness (a delay allowing us to demolish several bottles of wine at the airport), and were soon careening through the frozen wilderness with the Arctic's answer to Michael Schumacher at the wheel of his hotted up Lada (little did we know he was to be the Best Man). The local landscape reminded me of a f**king cold version of Azerbaijan, as we flashed past rusting derricks still pumping oil out of the icy tundra. Even in this strange frozen universe we were reminded that smoking was probably not in our best interests.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZirn1oxovI/AAAAAAAABbo/bi17WY_ocuA/s1600-h/IMG_0512.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZirn1oxovI/AAAAAAAABbo/bi17WY_ocuA/s200/IMG_0512.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177262130111218" border="0" /></a>As this was the hometown of the soon-to-be husband of Katya &amp; Luda's friend (that none had met), we were billeted to the best accommodation to be found- an ancient one-room apt with fold-out couch supported by a board on a fifth-floor walkup on Industrialnaya Avenue. Not to be deterred, Katya &amp; I shared a romantic Valentine's Day dinner of salami, frozen vegetables and ramen noodles procured from the local Produkti (which sold little else).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZirn-8JxvI/AAAAAAAABbw/ydOb6SEVYks/s1600-h/IMG_0515.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZirn-8JxvI/AAAAAAAABbw/ydOb6SEVYks/s200/IMG_0515.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177264627304178" border="0" /></a>The next morning dawned bright, snowy, and a balmy -15, warm weather for these parts. For those of you unfamiliar with Russian weddings, there are many fascinating traditions that may strike Western observers as curious. As Luda (the Maid of Honour) and Katya prepared for the festivities, I watched in alternate wonder, shock and horror as generously-sized middle-aged female family members contorted themselves into outfits better suited for svelte 15-year olds, with a sense of fashion and colour palette to match. The first tirade of the morning from our highly-strung bride was directed at a hamster-sized dog, whose minute teeth had apparently feasted on the bride's shoes during the night. I took the opportunity to open the first of many bottles of sickly-sweet (warm) Soviet Champagne, to calm the hordes of stressed out women roaming the apartment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiroFvot1I/AAAAAAAABb4/BzXzCK5-1PQ/s1600-h/IMG_0521.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiroFvot1I/AAAAAAAABb4/BzXzCK5-1PQ/s200/IMG_0521.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177266453854034" border="0" /></a>It's unclear exactly what happened next. The groom and his entourage appeared at the door to the apartment complex and were confronted by Katya &amp; Luda, apparently intent to either safeguard the bride's chastity, or at least extort the highest price possible from the poor groom (this is Russia, after all). Eventually, after writing her name on the floor in cash, the groom was permitted to enter and we prepared for the trip to ZAGS.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZitBsRbr6I/AAAAAAAABc4/ZvoBhlMeoHA/s1600-h/IMG_0535.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZitBsRbr6I/AAAAAAAABc4/ZvoBhlMeoHA/s200/IMG_0535.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303178805804511138" border="0" /></a>ZAGS- I'd heard this term uttered in hushed tones since my arrival in Russia, one of the revered four-letter acronyms (like the all-powerful MKAD*), that can strike fear, envy, or passion into the heart of the Russian soul. Unlike Western weddings, most Russian ceremonies are not performed in a church, so this relic from Soviet times performs a ceremony and marriage register all-in-one in an ingenious conveyor-belt-like function.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiroWMnv9I/AAAAAAAABcI/aNDOfYQ_xTY/s1600-h/IMG_0560.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZiroWMnv9I/AAAAAAAABcI/aNDOfYQ_xTY/s200/IMG_0560.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177270870392786" border="0" /></a>At any given time, there were approximately six brides and entourages present, and the waiting hall looked like someone had set off a grenade in a fluorescent taffeta and flower shop. Each wedding party had approximately ten minutes to be hustled into the waiting rooms, convene in the hall, get obligatory photos taken (with Putin and Medvedev looking on), and then convene for the ceremony itself, solemnly sworn in under the watchful eye of Russia's double-headed eagle. The wedding party is told to clap, and then shunted through a side-door into an ante-room, where an assistant has already poured more Soviet Champagne, and the whole group is given a generous three minutes to drink.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir2i9C1gI/AAAAAAAABcQ/hKqnN_dT_tE/s1600-h/IMG_0561.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir2i9C1gI/AAAAAAAABcQ/hKqnN_dT_tE/s200/IMG_0561.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177514812888578" border="0" /></a>After that, another side door opens, and it's back into the snow, while another fur-clad bride is hustled into the entrance. Money is hurled in the general direction of the married couple (occasionally causing minor lacerations) while street children scurry around scooping as much change up as possible. It's quite surreal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir29PFaBI/AAAAAAAABcY/6HskEsxO7MU/s1600-h/IMG_0571.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir29PFaBI/AAAAAAAABcY/6HskEsxO7MU/s200/IMG_0571.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177521867876370" border="0" /></a>The next exciting tradition is that the bridal party tours around the city eating caviar and drinking more Soviet Champagne while having photos taken in special places, such as the entrance to the city in -20 degrees, next to Lenin's outstreched hand, outside the submarine factory, and on a promontory sticking out into the White/Barents Sea. This last one got me particularly excited, as I could satisfy a lifelong dream of running around on top of the frozen ocean. Given it was cold, snowy, and the damn frozen ocean went on forever, I quickly tired of this and joined the rest of the wedding party for vodka shots.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir3LKbFSI/AAAAAAAABco/gkgCR_cAMWE/s1600-h/IMG_0586.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir3LKbFSI/AAAAAAAABco/gkgCR_cAMWE/s200/IMG_0586.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177525606421794" border="0" /></a>After the bride's third tantrum of the day, we retreated under fire to the nearby Stolovaya (Soviet canteen), where the tables were laid with all the russian specialties we could think of, and more vodka than I could jump over. More Russian traditions ensued, but as the evening became increasingly blurry, I'm not sure exactly how they all fit together.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir3a8TEsI/AAAAAAAABcw/zNYqrmCQieo/s1600-h/IMG_0619.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SZir3a8TEsI/AAAAAAAABcw/zNYqrmCQieo/s200/IMG_0619.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303177529842143938" border="0" /></a>Patchy memories include stashing vodka and Soviet champagne in the snow (in such a cold country, why is it so hard to get a chilled drink?), dancing Can-Can, a strange furry-costumed character attacking the groom, Katya losing her phone, trying to prevent the chain-weed-smoking bridal party from sliding off the front steps, being locked out of the Stolovaya by an aggrieved bridesmaid because I refused to kiss her, wowing the crowd with my stunning duet rendition of "Hotel California" by karaoke (it wasn't difficult, Luda &amp; I were the only English speakers), paying 1000r for a slice of wedding cake, and somehow making it back to our little apartment, with Luda ending up on a camp bed in the kitchen after trying to persuade the bride and groom not to divorce the next morning.<br /><br />At 4am, Katya and I hauled ourselves back on the road to Arkhangelsk and Moscow, still trying to piece together the randomness of the previous 36 hours.<br /><br />All I can say is: Russian weddings are a lot of fun.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2009/02/arctic-wedding.html">here</a>.<br />Worldguide: Are you kidding?<br /><br />* The MKAD is the outer ring road of Moscow, a twenty-lane behemoth that seems to be held in great reverence by Muscovites, and trips beyond it are held in regard similar to those reserved for early-century Antarctic explorers.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-18180101326001333772009-01-07T18:48:00.005+03:002009-01-07T18:55:29.688+03:00And Now For Something Completely Different<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWTPrS26o4I/AAAAAAAABZw/fz60penmIRo/s1600-h/5756779.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWTPrS26o4I/AAAAAAAABZw/fz60penmIRo/s200/5756779.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288580205143303042" border="0" /></a>It was (Orthodox) Xmas Eve, -15C, snowing, and after midnight, so some friends &amp; I logically decided to head to a waterpark outside of Moscow for a wild night of watersliding with DJ's, dancing girls, and the finest wave pool Moscow has to offer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWTPrCSMQQI/AAAAAAAABZo/FBSAUXMfDhA/s1600-h/5756828.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWTPrCSMQQI/AAAAAAAABZo/FBSAUXMfDhA/s200/5756828.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288580200694300930" border="0" /></a>For the rest of the story, see <a href="http://moscowmaximum.blogspot.com/2009/01/aquapark-kva-kva-and-now-for-something.html">this post</a> on MoscowMAXIMUM.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-80689189732777663942009-01-06T17:06:00.003+03:002009-01-06T17:44:15.221+03:00Festive Season Update<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqPLAQt_I/AAAAAAAABYg/z0Q93RW4ABE/s1600-h/IMG_0409.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqPLAQt_I/AAAAAAAABYg/z0Q93RW4ABE/s200/IMG_0409.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288187196347561970" border="0" /></a>Some of you have noticed that the volume of posts drops off considerably when I'm home in Moscow. While life here is certainly interesting, engaging, and otherwise fascinating, and there are plenty of things to write about (although many of them don't fit into the "family-friendly" category), it's just that "normal" life here is more or less like normal life anywhere else, it's just a lot colder, in a strange language, and people doing bizarre things for obscure cultural reasons- nothing that my readers would find interesting. Oh, and there is also obscene amounts of drinking, partying and debauchery, but that's hardly notable, is it?<br /><br />The last month or so have found me still camped out at my long-suffering friend Guri's place, while I reacclimatise to Moscow and start my new business (more about that later). Although in the melee of regular partying, you could be excused for not realising it's the holiday season (until all the expats flee Moscow for home or warmer climates as the temperatures approach -20).<br /><br />Not wanting to miss an excuse to celebrate, I organised a Christmas dinner and party on the 25th December (Russian Xmas isn't until the 7th Jan), and some photos of our very Merry Xmas are below:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqDANub1I/AAAAAAAABX4/xpaoW3Z-HRY/s1600-h/IMG_0303.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqDANub1I/AAAAAAAABX4/xpaoW3Z-HRY/s320/IMG_0303.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288186987292815186" border="0" /></a>The Boys at Opera<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqDSzyESI/AAAAAAAABYA/BiJH3JeesqM/s1600-h/CIMG0664.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqDSzyESI/AAAAAAAABYA/BiJH3JeesqM/s320/CIMG0664.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288186992284274978" border="0" /></a>Cam, Khristo, and those infamous "Red Shaker" shots, appropriate colour for Xmas!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqD5bRsDI/AAAAAAAABYI/vxsHN5-pTEE/s1600-h/IMG_0329.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqD5bRsDI/AAAAAAAABYI/vxsHN5-pTEE/s320/IMG_0329.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288187002650472498" border="0" /></a>Nothing says "Moscow Xmas" like Opera Club!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqEKFdCHI/AAAAAAAABYQ/ryBa9OjWelU/s1600-h/IMG_0288.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqEKFdCHI/AAAAAAAABYQ/ryBa9OjWelU/s320/IMG_0288.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288187007122344050" border="0" /></a>Cam, Gil, Guri &amp; Ariel in the Spirit of Xmas!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqEE4uKNI/AAAAAAAABYY/-tCGaWR9XeM/s1600-h/IMG_0337.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNqEE4uKNI/AAAAAAAABYY/-tCGaWR9XeM/s320/IMG_0337.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288187005726763218" border="0" /></a>Anya &amp; Nastya sharing the Spirit of Moscow Xmas<br /></div><br />A week later the real party season got under way with New Years Eve (the main celebration in Russia). I spent New Years Eve on the streets of Moscow with Katya watching the fireworks next to the Kremlin and Red Square, before retreating to my favourite bar:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNriivmCqI/AAAAAAAABYo/OPUgKBSwwow/s1600-h/IMG_0430.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNriivmCqI/AAAAAAAABYo/OPUgKBSwwow/s320/IMG_0430.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288188628649249442" border="0" /></a>A view of Tverskaya, with over a million people on the streets of the centre of Moscow to celebrate New Years Eve<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrilOGaOI/AAAAAAAABYw/yI7-pxWOqgg/s1600-h/IMG_0438.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrilOGaOI/AAAAAAAABYw/yI7-pxWOqgg/s320/IMG_0438.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288188629314070754" border="0" /></a>Katya &amp; sparklers on the streets!<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNri9LFZZI/AAAAAAAABY4/HGYyccVqKAg/s1600-h/IMG_0413.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNri9LFZZI/AAAAAAAABY4/HGYyccVqKAg/s320/IMG_0413.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288188635743872402" border="0" /></a>A horde of Santa's on the Metro en route to the centre<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrpkBIioI/AAAAAAAABZQ/b-KaWkWNv_E/s1600-h/IMG_0419.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrpkBIioI/AAAAAAAABZQ/b-KaWkWNv_E/s320/IMG_0419.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288188749250333314" border="0" /></a>Champagne on the streets of Moscow- Happy New Year!<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrjMqN3PI/AAAAAAAABZA/TSjOvyvkCVU/s1600-h/IMG_0427.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrjMqN3PI/AAAAAAAABZA/TSjOvyvkCVU/s320/IMG_0427.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288188639900982514" border="0" /></a>Fireworks above the Duma (Parliament) opposite the Kremlin<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrjYKHFdI/AAAAAAAABZI/lX-MNlC8WOM/s1600-h/IMG_0441.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNrjYKHFdI/AAAAAAAABZI/lX-MNlC8WOM/s320/IMG_0441.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288188642987546066" border="0" /></a>Nothing like a bottle of vodka, a kalyan, and Garage Love to bring in the New Year Moscow-style!<br /></div><br />And lest you think life in Moscow is about nothing other than partying, I even managed a cultural expedition to Alexandrov, a Golden Ring town about 150km north of Moscow, famous for its Kremlin and ancient monastery. It was beautiful, but cold, buried under the snow in about -15C:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNtTaqC0PI/AAAAAAAABZY/m8ZRlSvZnQ0/s1600-h/IMG_3360.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNtTaqC0PI/AAAAAAAABZY/m8ZRlSvZnQ0/s320/IMG_3360.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288190567803703538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNtTkjWPFI/AAAAAAAABZg/aTh2P854rtI/s1600-h/IMG_3373.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SWNtTkjWPFI/AAAAAAAABZg/aTh2P854rtI/s320/IMG_3373.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288190570459970642" border="0" /></a>Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-70565438790318640812008-12-12T19:52:00.003+03:002008-12-12T21:01:06.711+03:00New Domain Name- intlmutt.comI've finally jumped on the technological bandwagon and now have my own domain!<br /><br />You can update your bookmarks to:<br /><br />http://www.intlmutt.com (especially you, Mum!)<br /><br />It still redirects to blogspot, but anything to make your lives easier.<br /><br />CamCamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-84807598562415821802008-12-01T11:18:00.002+03:002008-12-02T11:22:07.047+03:00Cam's Obvious Lesson of the Weekend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STTvybuEDqI/AAAAAAAABDc/wofCsUqV2cs/s1600-h/IMG_0020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STTvybuEDqI/AAAAAAAABDc/wofCsUqV2cs/s200/IMG_0020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275104713271152290" border="0" /></a>When these guys storm the nightclub you happen to be in, giving them attitude is not a good idea.<br /><br />Ahhh... There's no place like home.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-12082665449068732112008-11-18T11:22:00.004+03:002008-12-02T12:16:02.831+03:00Nicaragua: Volcanomania<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4oITpbBI/AAAAAAAABEE/eFkBzh8niP0/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3277.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4oITpbBI/AAAAAAAABEE/eFkBzh8niP0/s200/Nicaragua_3277.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114431866039314" border="0" /></a>Another day, another quaint colonial town with lots of multicoloured buildings fringed by volcanoes. Avid readers of my blog (and let's face it- who isn't?) could be forgiven for thinking I was back in beautiful Antigua, <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2008/11/guatemala-of-mountains-monkeys-and-maya.html">Guatemala</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4nw_RMfI/AAAAAAAABD8/0vzytEvpQ7Y/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3264.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4nw_RMfI/AAAAAAAABD8/0vzytEvpQ7Y/s200/Nicaragua_3264.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114425606550002" border="0" /></a>But wait... The temperature is about a billion degrees, the place is run-down as anywhere I've seen, and there are mobs of protesters trying to dislodge the Government (this type of quasi-peaceful popular demonstration would never happen in gun-ridden Guatemala). It must be Nicaragua!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4n29h_ZI/AAAAAAAABD0/ep3f71k_TSo/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3251.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4n29h_ZI/AAAAAAAABD0/ep3f71k_TSo/s200/Nicaragua_3251.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114427209874834" border="0" /></a>Nicaragua is a somewhat delightful Central American haven for people who love volcanoes, lakes, colonial towns, unspoiled Caribbean coast, and high temperatures. In my hobbled state after my foot lost an argument with a Belizean glass bottle, my dreams of climbing great volcanoes and surfing the Pacific swell had to be put on hold, but I spent a pleasant few days hanging out in Granada, visiting nearby volcanoes and lakes, and hanging out with my b-school traveller friend Kenna (featured in such posts as <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2008/11/guatemala-of-mountains-monkeys-and-maya.html">Guatemala</a> &amp; <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2008/05/nepal-everest-base-camp.html">Nepal</a>). I particularly enjoyed the national food of Nicaragua- the hot dog. They're sold everywhere. For something a little more local, the Nacatamale was particularly tasty (kind of like a kitchen sink tamale).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4nmuLtAI/AAAAAAAABDs/PkRcLltzF20/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3240.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4nmuLtAI/AAAAAAAABDs/PkRcLltzF20/s200/Nicaragua_3240.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114422850532354" border="0" /></a>In case I haven't already driven this point home, Nicaragua is home to something like 12 major (mostly active) volcanoes, and about 40 other dormant ones. Everywhere on the horizon you can see a smoking volcano, and some of the country's most striking scenery, like Omatepe Island in Lake Nicaragua is formed by two volcanos joined by a lava bridge, reaching over 1,600m high with a large plume of smoke and ash from the more active crater. This creates a cool landscape. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4yXKVOCI/AAAAAAAABEM/lFv4icmiy7U/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3293.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4yXKVOCI/AAAAAAAABEM/lFv4icmiy7U/s200/Nicaragua_3293.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114607652190242" border="0" /></a>I had the chance to visit Masaya volcano, home to a long history of eruptions, about 5 different craters ranging from lakes to boiling lava pits, and thousands of hyperactive bats who themselves erupt from the dormant lava tubes every night to feast on the local population (OK, maybe not- I hear they're vegetarian).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4np0WQcI/AAAAAAAABDk/VCQmodWi6tA/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3314.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4np0WQcI/AAAAAAAABDk/VCQmodWi6tA/s200/Nicaragua_3314.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114423681696194" border="0" /></a>Granada itself is a quaint town, with a combination of rotting and restored Spanish architectural treasures, bustling markets, and an olfactory onslaught. My favourite time was in the evenings, when locals would move their rocking chairs onto the deserted streets to take advantage of the slightly lower temperatures and watch the world go by, their living rooms open to the streets and passers-by. As you might guess, there wasn't much in the way of nightlife.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4yl-NuXI/AAAAAAAABEU/HKokWjEq7zM/s1600-h/Nicaragua_3261.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/STT4yl-NuXI/AAAAAAAABEU/HKokWjEq7zM/s200/Nicaragua_3261.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275114611627899250" border="0" /></a>As increasingly strident protests mounted across the country as a result of a disputed presidential election and rumours of an airport lockdown intensified, I figured it was time to start the long journey home. A slightly earlier flight and a delightful overnight in the Travelodge LAX en route to Moscow reinforced not only how much I dislike Los Angeles, but also how much I was looking forward to being back in Russia, this this crazy country I now call home, many month of travels behind me, looking forward to starting a new business in Moscow in the new year.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/11/nicaragua.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/11/nicaragua.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-6100312213720293892008-11-14T03:57:00.004+03:002008-11-16T04:29:34.370+03:00Beautiful Belize<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90B9-9H1I/AAAAAAAABCk/YIDzzOr4JUs/s1600-h/IMG_0246.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90B9-9H1I/AAAAAAAABCk/YIDzzOr4JUs/s200/IMG_0246.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269057666214076242" border="0" /></a>This week I think I actually found a true tropical paradise. An island with excellent scuba diving and kitesurfing, rooms on a white sand beach for less than $20, exquisite seafood, and all-day happy hours with drinks for less than $2. If the Cayes of Belize had devushki, I would never leave.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90u7vYcQI/AAAAAAAABDE/pHxoEf_DKzc/s1600-h/Belize_3226.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90u7vYcQI/AAAAAAAABDE/pHxoEf_DKzc/s200/Belize_3226.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269058438706000130" border="0" /></a>Belize, a small country in the NE of Central America, is home to the 2nd-largest Barrier Reef in the world, so I had to check this out. I took a boat to Caye Caulker, and immediately fell in love with the easy-going vibe of the place. It’s one of the few places I’ve visited that the locals seem more chilled out than the dazed backpackers who hang out there. Within 2 days my new South Dakotan mate Orion &amp; I knew everyone on the island, and had sampled much of the delights that this wonderful place has to offer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90CVBcxOI/AAAAAAAABCs/AWaUXRHo9TE/s1600-h/IMG_0282.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90CVBcxOI/AAAAAAAABCs/AWaUXRHo9TE/s200/IMG_0282.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269057672398554338" border="0" /></a>Caye Caulker’s sandy main street seems to have more crab than pedestrian traffic, and the only vehicles are golf carts. The houses tend to be painted in some shade of pastel (helping me recover from my El Salvadorean pastel allergy), and every second shack or makeshift restaurant offers a new variation on how to cook the local lobster, conch, or other seafood (except the damn crabs or lizards, which are everywhere). Despite the pastels &amp; golf carts, the island has no attitude, and everyone is greeted on the street like an old friend (with permanent happy hours, pretty much everyone IS an old friend by the 3rd day).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90DLxgEeI/AAAAAAAABC8/74P7kn10a3g/s1600-h/IMG_0247.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90DLxgEeI/AAAAAAAABC8/74P7kn10a3g/s200/IMG_0247.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269057687095611874" border="0" /></a>Anyhow, back to the diving. Arguably Belize’s most famous dive site is the Blue Hole. The Blue Hole was originally an above-water limestone cavern, which was submerged over time, and then a section of the roof collapsed to create the large, perfectly circular hole in the reef that exists today. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90Bu9wxPI/AAAAAAAABCc/z1Gt_E920Tw/s1600-h/Blue+Hole_+Lighthouse+Reef_+Belize.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90Bu9wxPI/AAAAAAAABCc/z1Gt_E920Tw/s200/Blue+Hole_+Lighthouse+Reef_+Belize.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269057662182540530" border="0" /></a>The Blue Hole is over 150m deep, but a dive to about 45m takes you into an eerie swimthrough world of giant corkscrew stalactites hanging from the roof as you are circled by schools of curious ~2m grey and hammerhead sharks. One of the world’s truly unique dives.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90Cisza4I/AAAAAAAABC0/I1iOS3fxiRs/s1600-h/Belize_3224.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR90Cisza4I/AAAAAAAABC0/I1iOS3fxiRs/s200/Belize_3224.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269057676070054786" border="0" /></a>The next few days were filled with more of the same, punctuated by visits to other cayes and a Full Moon party, until a large piece of glass perforated my flipflop and my foot, spilling blood down the stairs of my favourite watering hole, telling me it was time to move on to Nicaragua. Apparently there is such a thing as too much paradise.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/11/beautiful-belize.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/11/belize.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-5413477630659077872008-11-11T03:45:00.003+03:002008-11-16T03:56:38.375+03:00Honduras & Copan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9txuUQk-I/AAAAAAAABCM/MOSmzaoaliI/s1600-h/Honduras_3203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9txuUQk-I/AAAAAAAABCM/MOSmzaoaliI/s200/Honduras_3203.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269050790060790754" border="0" /></a>Flush with excitement and brimming with Mayan enthusiasm from my recent Tikal experiences, I talked my remaining friends in San Salvador, Nic &amp; Sharmila, to accompany me on a one-day mission to visit the sprawling ruin complex of Copan, in Southern Honduras. Not to be unduly unfair to Honduras (especially in comparison with the tourist Mecca of San Salvador), but there really didn’t seem to be much else interesting there to soak up a few more days.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9txFyEmcI/AAAAAAAABB0/PNdXqCbowQM/s1600-h/Honduras_3181.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9txFyEmcI/AAAAAAAABB0/PNdXqCbowQM/s200/Honduras_3181.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269050779179981250" border="0" /></a>So at 5.30 in the morning, we clambered into a minibuses with our trusty guides and headed to Honduras via Guatemala (no, we’re not sure why either).<br /><br />Four hours later, we are strolling amongst the ruins of another of the great Mayan civilizations who vanished without a trace in the mid-900’s (although our guide in this instance had an Al Gore "environmental apocalypse" thing going on, which was quite inspired).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9txl9bRVI/AAAAAAAABCE/XfCaUm08IgM/s1600-h/Honduras_3188.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9txl9bRVI/AAAAAAAABCE/XfCaUm08IgM/s200/Honduras_3188.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269050787817538898" border="0" /></a>Compared to Tikal, Copan doesn’t have the scale, towering temples, the all-encompassing jungle or bird &amp; animal life, but what it does have are many more inscriptions which help bring the whole complex and Mayan story to life. It also has some really huge giant red parrots (Macau’s?), which I thought were really cool.<br /><br />After an invigorating Honduran (Mexican/Central American) lunch, it was another long drive back home. A long day, but worth it.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/11/honduras.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-77849356343214766402008-11-09T03:24:00.005+03:002008-11-17T03:32:52.942+03:00Celina's El Salvador Wedding<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9opwjSJMI/AAAAAAAABA8/4NmbChvUqxw/s1600-h/IMG_0218.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9opwjSJMI/AAAAAAAABA8/4NmbChvUqxw/s200/IMG_0218.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269045155663586498" border="0" /></a>Celina’s wedding in her home country of El Salvador was always going to be a glamorous extravaganza. Firstly, it’s simply not possible for Celina to do otherwise, and secondly, the combination of her worldly Salvadorean entourage and Alex’s Connecticut royalty flying into San Salvador for a week of festivities meant that no pastel-coloured stone was left unturned! As you can see from the photos, the weekend was an exercise in moderation and sobriety, so some of my recollections may be a little less accurate than usual.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9oqPX2xkI/AAAAAAAABBM/Yy_kkZEjOuo/s1600-h/0L4P8958.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9oqPX2xkI/AAAAAAAABBM/Yy_kkZEjOuo/s200/0L4P8958.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269045163937154626" border="0" /></a>The celebrations had already been in full swing for a couple of days before I swanned in from Guatemala, adding my “backpacker chic” ensemble and aroma to the pastel-&amp;-cardigan-enrobed masses. I was fortunate to arrive in time to make the evening dinner on the hills of San Salvador, where I immediately began reacquainting myself with Celina’s extended family, my b-school classmates, and of course, several Cuba Libres (the revolutionary’s beverage of choice).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9qLYMjSEI/AAAAAAAABBk/TELqox86v7A/s1600-h/El+Salvador_3157.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9qLYMjSEI/AAAAAAAABBk/TELqox86v7A/s200/El+Salvador_3157.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269046832752969794" border="0" /></a>The following morning dawned clear &amp; bright (although FAR too early) as we stumbled onto the bus for an excursion to Lake Cotepaque, a stunning volcanic crater lake, where we spent the day sunning, drinking, waterskiing and swimming, before retreating back to San Salvador and trying to make insightful observations on the gallery’s collection of Miro.<br /><br />The location played host to a plethora of speeches by people whose prose evoked apparently splendid memories of times gone by at a certain oft-mentioned college, during sailing trips, squash matches, or tennis duels in Bermuda (presumably all while still clad in the latest pastels).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9op95Cj1I/AAAAAAAABBE/xY1kXNiKJo0/s1600-h/0L4P9050.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9op95Cj1I/AAAAAAAABBE/xY1kXNiKJo0/s200/0L4P9050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269045159244500818" border="0" /></a>As obfuscating as some of these references were, all were heartfelt, as were Celina’s family’s rejoinders, and a rollicking good time was had by all, except perhaps by those of us who attempted to party on afterwards and were subject to 8 mediocre guitarists straining vainly to find a common tune at a local bar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9oqGVGQaI/AAAAAAAABBU/GtFLgakbkYM/s1600-h/IMG_0229.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9oqGVGQaI/AAAAAAAABBU/GtFLgakbkYM/s200/IMG_0229.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269045161509667234" border="0" /></a>The following evening was the wedding itself, and my memories of the earlier part of the evening are crystal clear. The most important part is that Celina &amp; Alex got married, and shortly thereafter we were bussed to the reception where the Salvadoreans demonstrated that they know how to have a good time!! Amid the dining, dancing, and celebrating, my sense is that most sensory perceptions started to go downhill around the time that a giant Ice Sombrero appeared on the dancefloor, filled with Tequila shots &amp; ringed with limes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9oqRh2WVI/AAAAAAAABBc/T0-l3pfvLX4/s1600-h/IMG_0231.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SR9oqRh2WVI/AAAAAAAABBc/T0-l3pfvLX4/s200/IMG_0231.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269045164515940690" border="0" /></a>Shortly thereafter the photos seem to indicate that nobody present was without castanets, horns, sombreros, pigtails, and/or tequila shots.<br /><br />I have it on good authority that everyone made it home safely and Celina &amp; Alex made their flight to Australia several hours later.<br /><br />Nic &amp; I, with another day to kill in San Salvador, tried in vain to do some cultural sightseeing (does Tony Roma’s count?), but ended up drinking Long Islands and watching back-to-back films at the local mall.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/11/celinas-el-salvador-wedding.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-69401764390607551562008-11-06T03:03:00.006+03:002008-11-09T03:29:35.850+03:00Guatemala: Of Mountains, Monkeys, and Maya<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpmDKm0wI/AAAAAAAABAk/Emvjo6FS5pw/s1600-h/211346370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpmDKm0wI/AAAAAAAABAk/Emvjo6FS5pw/s200/211346370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442547917935362" border="0" /></a>Guatemala packs a hell of a lot into a small country. After travelling around it for a week, I feel like I’ve been here a month! I’ve been caught in a stampede of Catholics, my friend has been robbed, I’ve fought with monkeys, had tarantulas crawl on me, climbed 70m Mayan ruins, been marooned on an island, and watched an election in Spanish.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpcouh9AI/AAAAAAAABAE/6Iy7CvUH9N8/s1600-h/181546370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpcouh9AI/AAAAAAAABAE/6Iy7CvUH9N8/s200/181546370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442386202031106" border="0" /></a>After a 28hr transit from Moscow (nobody told me Moscow-LA was 13hrs?), I landed bleary-eyed in Guatemala City, and hightailed it to Antigua, a stunning ancient colonial city nestled between three volcanoes, one sufficiently active to regularly be sending large plumes of ash into the sky. The town is a colourful mix of plazas, cobblestone streets, and fountains, with a predominantly local Maya population (over 60% of Guatemalans are Mayan). I happened to arrive the day after “Day of the Dead”, and was witness to a massive procession of devout Catholics carrying a semi-trailer-sized coffin of Jesus &amp; Co. through the streets for 8hrs (&amp; I used to think my ex-girlfriend occasionally dragging me to a church was excessively pious).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpl98h2qI/AAAAAAAABAc/AmOOu6e1l4c/s1600-h/910546370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpl98h2qI/AAAAAAAABAc/AmOOu6e1l4c/s200/910546370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442546516712098" border="0" /></a>I joyfully meet up with my friend Kenna, another world traveller, who I last saw in Kathmandu. Our routes had overlapped during the year, and it was great to see her again. Unfortunately, we had a taste of the omnipresent risk in Guatemala, as she had her bag slashed and wallet stolen as we watched the Catholic procession (bringing up an interesting debate as to the piousness of the perpetrators- which would add to the list the Catholic church has to answer to).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYplroZ2II/AAAAAAAABAU/dpCZhRME16Y/s1600-h/908646370705_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYplroZ2II/AAAAAAAABAU/dpCZhRME16Y/s200/908646370705_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442541600462978" border="0" /></a>Early the next morning I wound my way through the highlands to the beauty of Lake Atitlan, who’s surrounding villages are perched on the slopes of the huge volcanoes that ring the lake. I spent a pleasant time boating my way between villages, fending off determined Mayan souvenir vendors, and eating felafel (don’t ask) before the lure of Antigua drew me back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpmGDZ1QI/AAAAAAAABAs/RvfSRYLyjXw/s1600-h/586626370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpmGDZ1QI/AAAAAAAABAs/RvfSRYLyjXw/s200/586626370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442548693030146" border="0" /></a>A day later, I was deep in the jungles of Northern Guatemala, hiking into the ruined Mayan city of Tikal. Holy sh$t this place is impressive. For my first massive Mayan complex this place is hard to beat. At least 8 structures tower over 50m above the flat forest floor, breaching the rainforest canopy and allowing extraordinary views across the complex (any of you who have seen Star Wars where the rebel force leaves the base to take on the Death Star have seen the same view).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpb354gUI/AAAAAAAAA_s/HKkDfc4nhwU/s1600-h/720646370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpb354gUI/AAAAAAAAA_s/HKkDfc4nhwU/s200/720646370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442373096309058" border="0" /></a>As you wander from temple to temple, monkeys chase each other through the canopy, coutis, agoutis, anteaters and god knows what else (we saw fresh jaguar tracks) charge through the undergrowth, and toucans &amp; parrots flit through the ruins. The wildlife was almost as enthralling as the (seriously impressive) ruins. I was less enthused when a large tarantula made an appearance, but I eventually let him take a stroll up my arm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYplu4yc0I/AAAAAAAABAM/DXBVU-3ISY4/s1600-h/454836370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYplu4yc0I/AAAAAAAABAM/DXBVU-3ISY4/s200/454836370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442542474490690" border="0" /></a>Much of the site is yet to be uncovered, which gives a visitor a real feel for how the last Mayans or early explorers would have seen them. The absence of visitors or security allows you to clamber and explore as far as the wildlife will let you, and the mood and colours of the site change markedly with the time of day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpcQyazOI/AAAAAAAAA_8/7mlbDsIhA9I/s1600-h/730446370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpcQyazOI/AAAAAAAAA_8/7mlbDsIhA9I/s200/730446370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442379775888610" border="0" /></a>Arising before sunrise the next morning (you know how enthused about something I have to be to get me out of bed that early), I was sorely tempted to join in the noisy poop fight between two howler monkeys that had been keeping me awake much of the night, but I figured I’d already need the extra shower later, as I had many more kilometres of ruins to explore in the jungle humidity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpcRsiZJI/AAAAAAAAA_0/ay2w5hCOifk/s1600-h/143346370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpcRsiZJI/AAAAAAAAA_0/ay2w5hCOifk/s200/143346370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442380019655826" border="0" /></a>That night, I returned to Flores- Guatemala’s answer to Venice, a tiny, heavily populated island joined by a causeway in the middle of a lake. Like Venice, the island’s sole mission seems to be in fleecing tourists, as it’s apparently only occupied by hotels, bars, and Internet cafes, but with permanent happy hours of Cuba Libres for $1, I figured it was pointless to complain, and therefore my duty to help the local economy as best I could.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpbh5oivI/AAAAAAAAA_k/lRgoiZ4pLsg/s1600-h/238256370705_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRYpbh5oivI/AAAAAAAAA_k/lRgoiZ4pLsg/s200/238256370705_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266442367189682930" border="0" /></a>The next morning, only a seat by the lake with tacos and guacamole, Coke from a glass bottle, my laptop &amp; free wireless could soothe my pounding head (damn that cheap rum), as I solved the world’s problems over Skype, and awaited my flight to El Salvador.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/11/guatemala.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/11/guatemala.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com111tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-86348478938269744772008-10-30T20:34:00.003+03:002008-11-08T02:51:46.087+03:00Russian Bureaucracy Lesson #724: Don't Get Your Car Towed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDlWgFqYI/AAAAAAAAA_E/x5u8bji5lUY/s1600-h/IMG_0012.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDlWgFqYI/AAAAAAAAA_E/x5u8bji5lUY/s200/IMG_0012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265626698300631426" border="0" /></a>If you have the careless misfortune to have your car towed in Moscow, the good news is that the maximum fine is only 300RUB (~$12). In central Moscow, this is hardly a deterrent to would-be serial mis-parkers, so the police have become highly creative in their recovery policies, perverting further the already twisted beauracracy.<br /><br />Last week this scenario occured to Diana, a friend of mine. Having had a delightful late-evening catchup, we left a cafe around 1am to find the street where she had parked devoid of cars. We quickly ruled out the most likely Moscow scenario- theft, as either a particularly efficient gang of car theives had an unusually long list of beaten up 1974 Lada's to steal along with Diana's car, else it was more likely the work of the police.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDl0_aPgI/AAAAAAAAA_M/gpcTrp2dOP4/s1600-h/IMG_0014.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDl0_aPgI/AAAAAAAAA_M/gpcTrp2dOP4/s200/IMG_0014.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265626706485067266" border="0" /></a>After calling the mystery number for non-emergency police calls, we were directed to an address on the outskirts of Moscow, in the shadow of a large nuclear power station. Our destination was a temporary construction shed, sandwiched between two derelict factories. Inquiries of the police standing guard resulted in the enlightened response that it had been placed there, because "that's where it was built".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDl9aPkhI/AAAAAAAAA_U/h3BUrYHWUsQ/s1600-h/IMG_0015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDl9aPkhI/AAAAAAAAA_U/h3BUrYHWUsQ/s200/IMG_0015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265626708745097746" border="0" /></a>An hour wait later, Diana found she also had a couple of unpaid speeding fines, and so only an additional "fine" of several thousand rubles slipped between her passport pages would "persuade" the officer to allow her to collect her car. Having paid the actual fine (a surprisingly technological process), we were told to head to another derelict lot on the outskirts of Moscow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDmeuBRTI/AAAAAAAAA_c/9tRO7xyXEgg/s1600-h/IMG_0016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SRNDmeuBRTI/AAAAAAAAA_c/9tRO7xyXEgg/s200/IMG_0016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265626717686416690" border="0" /></a>Upon arrival, we were faced with a large corrugated iron gate, and a rickety fenced off lot. Some banging and paper exchanges later, we had to proceed to a dacha-like structure, where Diana negotiated the flower and vegetable patch to confer with the sleepy attendant inside.<br /><br />Some more posturing, much more paperwork, and finally 3 hours later, we were free to find our way back to Moscow.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-23148239489153485682008-09-23T18:41:00.005+04:002008-10-01T19:42:49.419+04:00Road Trip Part 3: Wales & England<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYxyUgJRI/AAAAAAAAA-8/NmHZDZwgIRw/s1600-h/999894139605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYxyUgJRI/AAAAAAAAA-8/NmHZDZwgIRw/s200/999894139605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209571532907794" border="0" /></a>Our last couple of days on the road with Albie the Astra (our car) and DJ TT were spent hurtling through Wales (which is a shame really, since it's such a pretty country, with 13 billion sheep), a debaucherous night out in Cardiff (scary), a detour via Stonehenge, and back to London- all hopefully without a speeding ticket! (time will tell).<br /><br />Upon arrival in Holyhead, Wales, we found Welsh even more unintelligible than Irish, so had to rely on DJ TT to get us safely to Cardiff, at the other end of the country. This is lucky, since although Wales is pretty small, there doesn't seem to be many roads larger than a goat track.<br /><br />Cardiff, at first glance, seemed to lack the historical charm of Edinburgh or Dublin, although the Lonely Planet assured us it's a "Confident, energetic city welcoming the new Millennium". Whatever.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYp9oY8dI/AAAAAAAAA-U/ZFGyKK1w0sE/s1600-h/433415139605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYp9oY8dI/AAAAAAAAA-U/ZFGyKK1w0sE/s200/433415139605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209437130158546" border="0" /></a>One thing Cardiff does NOT lack, however, is nightlife. Please remember that in this particular case, I'm defining nightlife as "hordes of people of all shapes and sizes looking to get indiscriminately drunk wherever and however possible", as opposed to a more rigorous definition that I might apply in a city like, say, Moscow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYxscwd7I/AAAAAAAAA-s/DTjXshCEqG8/s1600-h/817705139605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYxscwd7I/AAAAAAAAA-s/DTjXshCEqG8/s200/817705139605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209569956919218" border="0" /></a>Similar to the "popcorn theory" of Russia, for anthropological reasons I had been curious to determine how it is that such an aesthetically challenged race of people as the English could overcome this handicap to procreate as much as they have. My careful research has led me to the conclusion that it has something to do with obscene drunkenness, as well as a penchant to dress up as ladybugs or other insects and troll for bait down the high street.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYpohrVUI/AAAAAAAAA-E/OYB-AJjMj3M/s1600-h/818415139605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYpohrVUI/AAAAAAAAA-E/OYB-AJjMj3M/s200/818415139605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209431464858946" border="0" /></a>Seriously, Cardiff must be the global capitol for Hens Parties (Bachelorette Parties). We witnessed hordes of deranged women roaming the streets looking for alcohol, men, and good times. Many were dressed with massively lettered "D&amp;G- Drunk &amp; Gorgeous" t-shirts, often stenciled (ironically (we hope), and misleadingly) with their names, such as "Raunchy Rhonda, Dirty Debbie, and Sexy Susan".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYqNfeT-I/AAAAAAAAA-c/BqyJjQS9o7w/s1600-h/196715139605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYqNfeT-I/AAAAAAAAA-c/BqyJjQS9o7w/s200/196715139605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209441387728866" border="0" /></a>A few hours into the evening, we found ourselves cutting loose in an 80's nightclub, with 1GBP drinks and already a sea of carnage on the dancefloor. Several hours later, our photos show a river of people in all states pouring onto the streets and draining the Atlantic Ocean and OPEC to produce vast quantities of Fish &amp; Chips, the national food of the UK.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYqbm89FI/AAAAAAAAA-k/sF46wrhWkAY/s1600-h/163425139605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYqbm89FI/AAAAAAAAA-k/sF46wrhWkAY/s200/163425139605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209445177193554" border="0" /></a>Social experiment over, we staggered home, and as soon as our blood alcohol would let us, hightailed it out of there to seek higher cultural enlightenment.<br /><br />Thankfully, on the expressway a few miles later, we found it. Ice Cream and Diet Coke. Cam was happy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYxn8XxmI/AAAAAAAAA-0/ykY1LVPvt4M/s1600-h/762025139605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOYxn8XxmI/AAAAAAAAA-0/ykY1LVPvt4M/s200/762025139605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252209568747341410" border="0" /></a>Our next mission was Stonehenge, conveniently located within five metres of the highway (what were they thinking?) Apart from this deficiency, we were very impressed (not least because it had stopped raining), and determined that this 5,000 year-old pile of rocks was really worth the trip.<br /><br />Several hours later, tired and eager to get out of the car, we arrived back in London at the completion of our 4,000km odyssey around the British &amp; Irish Isles. A wonderful trip, amazing sights, delicious food, and a deeper appreciation into these cultures which have been so instrumental to modern Australian and American history.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/09/wales-and-stonehenge.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/09/wales.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-26109616684997364422008-09-19T15:44:00.007+04:002008-10-01T18:41:15.952+04:00Road Trip Part 2: Emerald Ireland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI-Xt-FdI/AAAAAAAAA9c/YJL3jGnDwFQ/s1600-h/189116529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI-Xt-FdI/AAAAAAAAA9c/YJL3jGnDwFQ/s200/189116529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192195544225234" border="0" /></a>Rolling off the ferry into Northern Ireland in the (once again) somewhat damp conditions, we were disappointed to leave haggis behind, but found ourselves surrounded by a friendly but bizarre local people speaking some strange language that we later realised was English.<br /><br />DJ TT, momentarily disoriented by our arrival in a new land, quickly got himself together and was enthralled by the prospect of fewer speed cameras.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI-PCI1jI/AAAAAAAAA9M/olUfcbfxfKA/s1600-h/432456529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI-PCI1jI/AAAAAAAAA9M/olUfcbfxfKA/s200/432456529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192193212896818" border="0" /></a>Belfast was a gripping experience. With my only previous exposure while growing up through news coverage of the violence, it was fascinating to visit the now (mostly) quiet Republican (Catholic) and Unionist (Protestant) neighbourhoods bearing the scars of decades of conflict.<br /><br />The separation fences, bullet holes and strident murals recalled another intractable conflict in the Middle East, but it’s colder and wetter here, and the hummus is terrible.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI92YHXuI/AAAAAAAAA88/fE0EskEHx4M/s1600-h/153756529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI92YHXuI/AAAAAAAAA88/fE0EskEHx4M/s200/153756529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192186594189026" border="0" /></a>Recent history aside, Belfast had its share of attractions, and KY &amp; I both had the chance to meet some locals and receive some earnest (&amp; frankly terrifying) propositions, however if anyone has contacts with the casting directors of either "Neighbours" or "Home &amp; Away" (horrible Aussie soap operas beloved in the UK), we have some eager prospects for you.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOJGhAMNDI/AAAAAAAAA90/fqFzFKpZyh0/s1600-h/149716529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOJGhAMNDI/AAAAAAAAA90/fqFzFKpZyh0/s200/149716529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192335475520562" border="0" /></a>The next day we planned to hit the road and see the countryside. Unfortunately, we couldn’t see sh$t. The weather was so bad, we at times couldn’t see the sea we were driving next to, but did get some quintessential Misty Ireland photos.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwaLN2JI/AAAAAAAAA8s/a-L8RWNVlN8/s1600-h/386786529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwaLN2JI/AAAAAAAAA8s/a-L8RWNVlN8/s200/386786529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252191955685595282" border="0" /></a>As the weather lifted, we began to see why they call this place the Emerald Isle. Literally every square centimetre of the country more than 2cm from the sea is covered in bright green grass. It’s like some deranged Leprechaun got the mega-discounted volume pack of Astroturf from Wal-Mart &amp; couldn’t find anywhere else to use it. Those poor ba$tards must have been <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> disappointed when they were deported to Australia in the days before they invented surfing &amp; bikinis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwXMVt1I/AAAAAAAAA8k/AZaeGHHORds/s1600-h/712386529605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwXMVt1I/AAAAAAAAA8k/AZaeGHHORds/s200/712386529605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252191954884998994" border="0" /></a>We also found our first experience of what was to become a familiar issue of grade-inflation of tourist attractions. For the record, the rope bridge thing is not that exciting. What we did think was fun was the Giant’s Causeway, a natural phenomenon that really looks like a badly paved road leading into the water (Trust me, it does look more interesting than it sounds).<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwP_Fu8I/AAAAAAAAA8U/pivAxldwzQE/s1600-h/911896529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwP_Fu8I/AAAAAAAAA8U/pivAxldwzQE/s200/911896529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252191952950377410" border="0" /></a>Heading into the Republic of Ireland (we think, visibility was still difficult), we spent the next few days meandering southwards along the country's stunning West Coast. We had memorable meals in Sligo and Galway, hair-raising driving in Connemara, saw the hauntingly beautiful Doolough Valley, and then a couple of days later found ourselves in beautiful and quaint Dingle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI-R24RPI/AAAAAAAAA9U/JBXM6l_KO-Y/s1600-h/105556529605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOI-R24RPI/AAAAAAAAA9U/JBXM6l_KO-Y/s200/105556529605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192193970980082" border="0" /></a>Dingle's quaint pubs, cute houses, and a studiously preserved traditional Irish atmosphere combined with the incredible natural beauty of the Dingle Peninsula (the "Ring of Dingle") was the highlight of our Ireland trip. For the record, the Ring of Dingle is way more interesting than the Ring of Kerry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOJGRwiQWI/AAAAAAAAA9s/6hA4AfJgQAo/s1600-h/142816529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOJGRwiQWI/AAAAAAAAA9s/6hA4AfJgQAo/s200/142816529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192331383325026" border="0" /></a>The following night found us in Cork, Ireland's second largest city. While Cork is no doubt a lovely place, we were a bit Irish'ed out at that point, and sought refuge in pizza and DVD's, which was a very satisfying evening in its own right.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOJGZKX3HI/AAAAAAAAA9k/ux5Dyi1M2u0/s1600-h/494626529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOJGZKX3HI/AAAAAAAAA9k/ux5Dyi1M2u0/s200/494626529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252192333370743922" border="0" /></a>The world-famous Blarney Stone is said to give you magical powers of conversation and persuasion (or at least the ability to avoid an issue), and while Kristen &amp; I don't seem to be in great need of this, we figured that it was better safe than sorry! What's generally not well-explained, however, is that to kiss this damn rock, you have to climb to the top of a (really impressive) 15th Century castle, and then bend backwards over the parapets to plant your lips (or in KY's case- her nose) on the well-loved rock.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwv-xqGI/AAAAAAAAA80/-rROlKb6t6Y/s1600-h/435266529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SOOIwv-xqGI/AAAAAAAAA80/-rROlKb6t6Y/s200/435266529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252191961538996322" border="0" /></a>Once completed &amp; appropriately disinfected, we headed to Dublin, home to a lot of pubs, music, and of course Guinness. To attempt to be properly Irish, Cam tried Guinness on several occasions, but it definitely hasn't grown on me. Next morning, we boarded a ferry and headed back to the UK- next stop Wales!<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/09/emerald-ireland.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/09/ireland.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-18680513537093705062008-09-16T03:30:00.000+04:002008-09-30T15:43:34.343+04:00Deadly Perfume Baths?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrN07-z_7I/AAAAAAAAA8E/CRwDwgIUhkU/s1600-h/ena0200l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrN07-z_7I/AAAAAAAAA8E/CRwDwgIUhkU/s200/ena0200l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249734624991772594" border="0" /></a>We interrupt our regularly scheduled travel programming to bring the attention of my loyal readers to another "Only in Russia" story.<br /><br />Apparently one (or more) of some oligarch's wives or girlfriends was taken to hospital after she had purchased several dozen bottles of expensive perfume and taken a perfume bath.<br /><br />For some unknown (but not difficult to imagine) reason, this is actually really bad for you and could kill you.<br /><br />Does anyone have any more credible information on this phenomenon? I can just imagine the new cigarette-style labels on Chanel No. 5, "Not to be used for bathing".Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-6261095935483515862008-09-13T03:38:00.000+04:002008-09-25T03:09:07.583+04:00Road Trip Part 1: England & Scotland: Smile for the camera!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFKSwif2I/AAAAAAAAA60/-FgZelaiwUk/s1600-h/733132529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFKSwif2I/AAAAAAAAA60/-FgZelaiwUk/s200/733132529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725096278523746" border="0" /></a>I'm absolutely certain that Britons are the most-watched people on the planet. Despite the well-reported teeth issue, questionable aesthetics, and camera-unfriendly weather, the passion in this country for reality TV has reached such heights that the police have CCTV cameras on every corner, and speed cameras on every street (no, I'm not kidding). I counted eight speed and red-light cameras within 2 kilometres on my way out of London.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFKDT5RUI/AAAAAAAAA6s/a2taQ4yQzuI/s1600-h/surveillance_cameras.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFKDT5RUI/AAAAAAAAA6s/a2taQ4yQzuI/s200/surveillance_cameras.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725092131849538" border="0" /></a>My alternate theory is that the Metropolitan Police are so poorly funded that they've taken to filming ad-hoc reality TV segments and long-distance paparazzi shots to help finance their fight against crime (that may account for the increasingly grainy B&amp;W images with boxes over their eyes in British tabloids).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFJQDEMvI/AAAAAAAAA6k/Zw7uQlgFkbg/s1600-h/monkeyboy_375x500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFJQDEMvI/AAAAAAAAA6k/Zw7uQlgFkbg/s200/monkeyboy_375x500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725078371054322" border="0" /></a>Until I stepped behind the wheel of my mighty Astra for a two-week road trip around the UK &amp; Ireland, I was unaware of this fetish for vehicular voyeurism. Thankfully, I was armed with my little Tom-Tom (satnav system), which helpfully (but occasionally inaccurately) beeped maniacally at me whenever I approached one of these infernal devices. The ludicrous frequency of cameras meant that my Tom-Tom's tone matched the rapid beat of the Russian Club Music CD's I'd put in the player, so it quickly won the label DJ TomTom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFjDIwxzI/AAAAAAAAA78/U48QH6yg3MU/s1600-h/864191529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFjDIwxzI/AAAAAAAAA78/U48QH6yg3MU/s200/864191529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725521581885234" border="0" /></a>Undeterred, I headed north from the London suburbs towards my rendezvous with Aussie friend and fellow adventurous traveller Kristen, who I was to meet in Edinburgh three days hence. This meant I had a lot of ground to cover in little time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFbZp-JUI/AAAAAAAAA7c/fJyV1XQZuIE/s1600-h/388232529605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFbZp-JUI/AAAAAAAAA7c/fJyV1XQZuIE/s200/388232529605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725390187799874" border="0" /></a>My first stop was the ancient and prestigious town of Oxford, home to one of the world's most famous universities. The first of many of the puzzles that were to bemuse me on this trip was listed on the roadsign as I entered the town: "Welcome to Oxford, sister city of Perm, Russia". Now, I've been to <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2007/08/exiled-to-siberian-salt-mines.html">Perm</a>, and while I'd be the first to defend it as a pleasant Western Siberian town, but even <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perm">Wikipedia</a> claims it to be an administrative, industrial and scientific centre, whose main industries include machinery, defense and oil production &amp; refining. What on earth does it have in common with the ancient educational centre of Oxford?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFcNrbdZI/AAAAAAAAA7s/Ju4wBXI4gxo/s1600-h/254702529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFcNrbdZI/AAAAAAAAA7s/Ju4wBXI4gxo/s200/254702529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725404152558994" border="0" /></a>Putting aside this most vexing of life's great mysteries, I continued north to Stratford-upon-Avon, birthplace of the legendary poet William Shakespeare. Refrains of "Midsummer Night's Dream" flitted through my mind as I flew north under not-so-sunny skies, before my thoughts turned to "Richard III" as I sat in yet another interminable traffic jam on the highway. Stratford itself was pleasant enough, and I mused upon the ability for so many fake (or real) Tudor cottages to be bolstered against each other and sell vast amounts of meaningless tourist junk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFbO8Rk0I/AAAAAAAAA7U/pUED1tS94-M/s1600-h/216822529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFbO8Rk0I/AAAAAAAAA7U/pUED1tS94-M/s200/216822529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725387311780674" border="0" /></a>Heading north once more, I arrived at my destination for the evening, the bustling city of Manchester. Lonely Planet describes Manchester as a "modern metropolis embracing change", "the UK's answer to Barcelona", with "literally something for every palate", and a "terrific club scene". For the record, this is complete bullsh*t. Arriving in town around 8pm, the "vast range" of restaurants were all closed (Barcelona? Are you kidding? People are still having breakfast in Barcelona at 8pm!).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFaq_pgrI/AAAAAAAAA7M/2TisKU7iwwc/s1600-h/208232529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFaq_pgrI/AAAAAAAAA7M/2TisKU7iwwc/s200/208232529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725377662255794" border="0" /></a>I was reduced to eating at the Hard Rock Cafe, which thankfully served until after 10pm. As for the "terrific" club scene, I managed to uncover a bunch of shirtless university students doing 1GBP shots at a bar playing 2003 club mixes stolen from a third-rate DJ from Ohio. While in Russia, this may still become a good scene, these (male) students were constantly on the verge of brawling while being egged on by girls who in some cases were twice their size! I limped home, keen to see what the next day held in store.<br /><br />I arose early, although unfortunately not early enough to beat the "change-embracing" traffic police, who had already seen fit to issue me with a ticket. As I headed for the city limits as fast as the speed cameras would let me, I couldn't get Manchester in my rear vision window fast enough. More exciting destinations awaited- Liverpool!<br /><br />Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, was also principally uninspiring, and I didn't figure out until I got there that the legendary Abbey Road is actually in London (yes, it has a speed camera on it too).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFiwnqolI/AAAAAAAAA70/b0VUveuA0Sk/s1600-h/457291529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFiwnqolI/AAAAAAAAA70/b0VUveuA0Sk/s200/457291529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725516611232338" border="0" /></a>I made a beeline for York, home to a beautiful cathedral, and then headed Northwest, to the Lakes District and Hadrian's Wall, the massive Roman fortifications which marked the northern frontier of the Roman Empire. This massive 2,000yo undertaking is still impressive, with segments of the wall, various wiers, and several of the protective berms and watchtowers surviving to this day (much to the amusement of local livestock). The area was beautiful, with rolling hills, ancient farmhouses, lakes, and so much of the green landscape that was to follow me north, and especially through Ireland. That evening I crossed the border and crawled into the ancient capital of Scotland- Edinburgh.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFLF8tIEI/AAAAAAAAA7E/ruD0y1qKlTU/s1600-h/922812529605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFLF8tIEI/AAAAAAAAA7E/ruD0y1qKlTU/s200/922812529605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725110019760194" border="0" /></a>Edinburgh is a beautiful and lively Scottish town, with all the great food and nightlife that Manchester was missing. My first evening there I befriended some Polish travellers and we were persuaded by our bartender that my historical aversion to Scotch whiskey may merely be a result of drinking the wrong Scotch! She produced a Scotch tasting map (my consultant readers will be salivating), as well as a Scotch tasting menu. My favourite was a Macallan which apparently had "an attractive honeyed thread that weaves through the oak and grape, some beautiful marmalade off-cuts toy with a ghostly peatiness, with touches of creamy butter and vanilla". Hats off to the dude who came up with that cr*p, but no matter how many marmalade off-cuts there were, I still don't like Scotch (neither did my head the next morning).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFK_9YXgI/AAAAAAAAA68/lPhG_ATOnjc/s1600-h/348211529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFK_9YXgI/AAAAAAAAA68/lPhG_ATOnjc/s200/348211529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725108411981314" border="0" /></a>Not to be outdone by the Scotch, the next morning I headed yet further north to unravel the mysteries of Loch Ness. 300km later, the most exciting part of the day was that I witnessed rays of sunshine breaking through heavy cloud cover for the first time since arriving in the UK! Oh yes, there was also a large, dark lake reputed to be infested with dinosaurs, but since they didn't see fit to expose themselves to me, I can only say it was a delightful lake with a pretty castle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFb496_rI/AAAAAAAAA7k/g4FSkHw6wrI/s1600-h/237912529605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNrFb496_rI/AAAAAAAAA7k/g4FSkHw6wrI/s200/237912529605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249725398592978610" border="0" /></a>I hightailed it back to Edinburgh to meet up with my long-suffering friend and travel companion Kristen, and we threw ourselves into Edinburgh nightlife with gusto!<br /><br />15 minutes later, we downed a couple of shots and headed back to the hotel...<br /><br />The next morning, it was time to head (indirectly) to Northern Ireland. We confirmed there is in fact, nothing to see in Glasgow, and then risked life &amp; limb (not to mention those bloody speed cameras) to make it to the ferry to Belfast.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/09/england-and-scotland.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/09/england-scotland.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-50666931158826205052008-09-10T21:48:00.001+04:002008-09-22T21:58:21.009+04:00UK & Ireland Odyssey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNfcAiNYMmI/AAAAAAAAA6U/6jBGz9zYOaI/s1600-h/Road+Trip+Itinerary.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SNfcAiNYMmI/AAAAAAAAA6U/6jBGz9zYOaI/s200/Road+Trip+Itinerary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248905792464630370" border="0" /></a>4,000kms later, I can say Kristen &amp; I have comprehensively explored the British Isles and Ireland. The next few entries will deal with my last few weeks of travel, driving around the UK from South to North, then through Northern Ireland, down the West Coast of Ireland, another ferry to Wales, and back to London via Cardiff and Stonehenge (see map).<br /><br />Many people have asked me "Why Britain &amp; Ireland? Your usual travels are in far-flung areas the rest of the world hasn't seen!". In response, all I can say is that having insufficiently visited these lovely locations previously, there was plenty to see and do, and it was a fascinating journey through times and places that have had such an impact on the modern world.<br /><br />I would also add that some parts of the UK &amp; Ireland have a little more in common than you might think with some of my earlier adventures. Incomprehensible local languages and dialects, occasionally inedible food, hostile weather, and long road journeys made a lasting impression on both of us.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-70639847321317668732008-09-07T19:33:00.008+04:002008-09-09T21:14:21.268+04:00Rustic Vermont Wedding<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao-UWVgPI/AAAAAAAAA58/-2upDtgNTe4/s1600-h/314320988605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao-UWVgPI/AAAAAAAAA58/-2upDtgNTe4/s200/314320988605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244064604687270130" border="0" /></a>A bolt of fear shot through me as I read Will's email regarding his (&amp; Jenn's) upcoming wedding: "Please ensure you bring mosquito repellent, a sleeping bag, and an umbrella, the camp is a little rustic. Please also note there is no cellphone reception or internet."<br /><br />Up until this point, I had been enjoying my return to civilisation and creature comforts after the Caucasus &amp; Bhutan, but apparently this was about to be abruptly terminated! How could Vermont have less internet coverage than Kyrgyzstan? After the luxuries of <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2008/09/germany-benelux-and-paris-in-week.html">Bernd</a>'s wedding, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoBpIUhnI/AAAAAAAAA5E/OpoyDmyontQ/s1600-h/128780988605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoBpIUhnI/AAAAAAAAA5E/OpoyDmyontQ/s200/128780988605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244063562293610098" border="0" /></a>how could I face a weekend wedding at a summer camp? And if <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> was worried, then what would James be thinking? On the plane to NY Nic &amp; I pondered (while enjoying our business class upgrade- thanks KLM!) whether he still planned to attend- especially after the continued abuse I had been receiving over email about his slow recovery from our Central Asian adventures.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao92r4FOI/AAAAAAAAA50/mpcDGA2phm4/s1600-h/221810988605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao92r4FOI/AAAAAAAAA50/mpcDGA2phm4/s200/221810988605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244064596724552930" border="0" /></a>After a quick blitz through NYC (Ahhh, those restaurants!), we were in an SUV en route to Northern Vermont. Upon arrival at the summer camp, I could see our fears were unfounded. The summer camp, while rustic, was beautifully situated on a lake, with a kind of "Meatballs meets Dirty Dancing" look, but with a rolling lawn looking down the hillside to the shore, perfect for an outdoor wedding. True to form, Will had already jumped (or been thrown?) in the lake by the time we arrived, and it was fantastic to catch up with more b-school classmates as we gathered for drinks by the lake.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao9t4N0YI/AAAAAAAAA5k/mNn07NFf-B4/s1600-h/639550988605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao9t4N0YI/AAAAAAAAA5k/mNn07NFf-B4/s200/639550988605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244064594360390018" border="0" /></a>Following delightful sunset drinks by the lake (for better or worse, nobody else ended up in the lake), we crawled up the hill to face an enormous barbeque of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbecue_in_the_United_States">barbeque</a> (it's an American thing). We roasted <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S%27mores">S'Mores</a> (another American thing) over an outdoor campfire. Motes (another American thing- well, actually, a person, but he gets extra credit because he's an avid reader of this blog. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoCH3FIkI/AAAAAAAAA5c/JZBnX2TqcTQ/s1600-h/836870988605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoCH3FIkI/AAAAAAAAA5c/JZBnX2TqcTQ/s200/836870988605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244063570542797378" border="0" /></a>Ed. Note: <span style="font-style: italic;">Not</span> <a href="http://www.chrismotespumpingservice.com/">this</a> Motes) played the guitar and we all sang songs under a sparkling blanket of stars. Before too long, it was just Nic, Will &amp; I sitting around the campfire, debating the finer points of our sailing trips, and Nic &amp; I trying to figure out how to make the vodka last until the afterparty the following night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao-lOPSQI/AAAAAAAAA6E/gF1bdI8ruHw/s1600-h/865310988605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao-lOPSQI/AAAAAAAAA6E/gF1bdI8ruHw/s200/865310988605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244064609216710914" border="0" /></a>Unfortunately, later that night the rain came down, and didn't stop again until Sunday. DK (or maybe it was Fei) had the epic idea, that since we were in Vermont anyhow, it would be criminal not to visit the home of <a href="http://www.benjerrys.com/">Ben &amp; Jerry's</a>, just up the road (OK, an hour or so). Indeed, the factory tour was very interesting (e.g. Did you know that <a href="http://www.unilever.com/">Unilever</a> purchased <a href="http://www.slim-fast.com/homepage.aspx">Slim-Fast</a> the same day it purchased Ben &amp; Jerry's?), however after demolishing a litre of Ben &amp; Jerry's on the way back to the summer camp, I was wishing I'd stuck to Slim-Fast.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoBu5wF7I/AAAAAAAAA48/2bvkYxCu31A/s1600-h/CamMontagesm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoBu5wF7I/AAAAAAAAA48/2bvkYxCu31A/s200/CamMontagesm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244063563843114930" border="0" /></a>Despite the rain, the wedding was beautifully done, officiated by Will's Dad in the lodge. The night continued with plenty of drinking, dancing, &amp; speeches, followed by a kick-ass after-party (if I do say so myself) hosted by Nic &amp; I. As the photos to the left indicate, maybe we had one or two drinks, I can't remember too clearly, but I am certain that Russkie Pop has never been sung quite so vociferously in the woods of Vermont before or since (can someone please explain how I ended up with the large burn on my arm)?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao9jIPHRI/AAAAAAAAA5s/HIZxKeqFvjI/s1600-h/588420988605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMao9jIPHRI/AAAAAAAAA5s/HIZxKeqFvjI/s200/588420988605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244064591474793746" border="0" /></a>The following morning, we crawled to delightful brunch at Will's parents place on another lake (now I understand why Will turned out like he is), and then headed back to Manhattan. I collected my newly-purchased LP guides and and on the plane (no upgrade- damn Delta) studied England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales so I could figure out where to go next week!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoB6y6WyI/AAAAAAAAA5M/WT63ue6rP1g/s1600-h/942101988605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SMaoB6y6WyI/AAAAAAAAA5M/WT63ue6rP1g/s200/942101988605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244063567035652898" border="0" /></a>Upon reflection, it was hard to imagine two more different weddings than Will's &amp; Bernd's, but both were spectacularly done in their own way, and each was so true to the couples they were celebrating. I felt truly fortunate to have been able to attend them both in such a short space of time and be able to appreciate each for such different reasons.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/09/wills-rustic-vermont-wedding.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-20951431605368605412008-09-03T02:39:00.006+04:002008-09-04T18:19:27.062+04:00Germany, Benelux, and Paris in a Week!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_soYecc4I/AAAAAAAAA4U/njrZ9D6xDuE/s1600-h/681539668605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_soYecc4I/AAAAAAAAA4U/njrZ9D6xDuE/s200/681539668605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242168669791613826" border="0" /></a>After the blissful relaxation of Santorini, Katya &amp; I flew to Amsterdam, where we hired a car and drove to Vechta &amp; Langforden, Germany, a collection of beautiful small traditional German towns which are about as far from anywhere as you can get in Germany.<br /><br />The reason for our splendid isolationist seclusion in northern Germany was that a dear b-school friend of mine Bernd was to be married to his delightful fiancee Isabel. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sd-Y9wTI/AAAAAAAAA4M/fRS-xqt2oxo/s1600-h/790829668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sd-Y9wTI/AAAAAAAAA4M/fRS-xqt2oxo/s200/790829668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242168490990616882" border="0" /></a>The marriage of two old German families of the region was a source of great excitement to this small community (as it was for the horde of our b-school friends who flew in from around the world to be part of it), and they had spared no expense for an extraordinarily beautiful wedding at Isabel's family chateau.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdUYgDJI/AAAAAAAAA38/BSD5NudJwMs/s1600-h/968349668605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdUYgDJI/AAAAAAAAA38/BSD5NudJwMs/s200/968349668605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242168479714380946" border="0" /></a>A Friday party was followed by a beautiful church wedding Saturday morning, then a glorious lunchtime spread in marquees set up on the beautifully manicured lawns. That evening, we returned in black tie to marquees at the other end of the garden where we ate and danced the evening away. It was a truly splendid wedding that we were honoured to be a part of.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdcZherI/AAAAAAAAA30/hGVEtrgAexQ/s1600-h/298939668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdcZherI/AAAAAAAAA30/hGVEtrgAexQ/s200/298939668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242168481866152626" border="0" /></a>Sunday morning we all staggered back again to partake of a vast Bavarian feast that Bernd had organised to celebrate his adopted Bavarian homeland of Munich, complete with Oktoberfest band! After consuming more wurst, pretzels, gingerbread and kraut than I had previously considered possible, Nic, Katya and I headed South, for an evening at Nic's parents' estate in southeastern Belgium.<br /><br />Nic's family made us most welcome and we settled into my first home-cooked meal in many months, as the last sunset of summer slipped behind the wooded hills. After the big weekend and long drive, the silence of the estate was a welcome change and put us into a deep sleep (the 4 bottles of wine may have helped), to be ready for a long drive the following day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdR0l8SI/AAAAAAAAA3s/5OxMvIiIQTw/s1600-h/234189668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdR0l8SI/AAAAAAAAA3s/5OxMvIiIQTw/s200/234189668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242168479026901282" border="0" /></a>Bright and early (by our standards anyhow), we arose the next morning to drive to Paris, via Luxembourg. For some strange reason, Katya &amp; I decided that Luxembourg wouldn't be far out of our way en route to Paris, and would be a lovely place to do lunch. For the record, this may not have been my best idea. Thankfully the lax speed limits of the region and our mighty Astra delivered us to Paris for a couple of days with Nic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdyee2-I/AAAAAAAAA4E/n3rxZk1IptU/s1600-h/964159668605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL_sdyee2-I/AAAAAAAAA4E/n3rxZk1IptU/s200/964159668605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242168487792532450" border="0" /></a>Although we spent only a brief time in Paris, it was wonderful to return to this city that I have so many great memories, and it was fantastic to visit for the first time since Nic has been living there. We stayed at his super-cute (although super high-altitude) loft apartment, and hit some great restaurants and bars. We wandered the streets for a day and did the tourist stuff (and stuffed ourselves with patisserie), but had to leave far too soon.<br /><br />One of the best things about Paris, however, is that it will always be there, just waiting for you to return.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/09/bernd-wedding-paris.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-10256198538135308082008-08-29T02:07:00.005+04:002008-09-04T03:23:04.073+04:00Stunning Santorini<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZoJgCKpI/AAAAAAAAA3U/kiq61Q3SnZc/s1600-h/836936668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZoJgCKpI/AAAAAAAAA3U/kiq61Q3SnZc/s200/836936668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241936668818287250" border="0" /></a>After a tough year of travelling, a little downtime is needed, and after an overnight back in Moscow, Katya &amp; I headed to the Aegean. I hadn’t told her where we were heading, but after a quick stop in Athens (with a lightening tour of the Acropolis), we were headed for stunning Santorini, one of the most truly ridiculously beautiful places in the world.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZaabKwfI/AAAAAAAAA28/su5e2OfmAJc/s1600-h/319146668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZaabKwfI/AAAAAAAAA28/su5e2OfmAJc/s200/319146668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241936432843112946" border="0" /></a>For those of you unfamiliar with Santorini (or Thira), it’s a Greek island in the Cyclades which had the misfortune to suffer a catastrophic volcanic eruption about 2,500 years ago. While no doubt traumatic for the residents at the time, it has left an amazing<span style=""> </span>semicircular west-facing volcanic rim island perched high above a beautiful blue caldera.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZZ6QacTI/AAAAAAAAA2k/KsSkWZJjHDs/s1600-h/437708668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZZ6QacTI/AAAAAAAAA2k/KsSkWZJjHDs/s200/437708668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241936424208068914" border="0" /></a>The villages of the island (and its innumerable churches) are mostly perched on the clifftop and are uniformly white, with the occasional pastel or blue roof, which create the most photogenic scenes imaginable. Add to this a (mostly overblown) reputation for wine, and some great beaches, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZaN7l4FI/AAAAAAAAA2s/pk6RfwKBzXw/s1600-h/344477668605_0_ALB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZaN7l4FI/AAAAAAAAA2s/pk6RfwKBzXw/s200/344477668605_0_ALB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241936429489446994" border="0" /></a>and you have a very nice place to spend a couple of days! I had previously visited with friends on a yacht, but this time Katya &amp; I were here to see a different side of Santorini!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZoEcLInI/AAAAAAAAA3E/iLZMsnZK_Lc/s1600-h/709826668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZoEcLInI/AAAAAAAAA3E/iLZMsnZK_Lc/s200/709826668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241936667459920498" border="0" /></a>Our days were absorbed with touring the island on our 4WD bike, locating new beaches, sampling the various wines, comparing which tavernas had the best grilled octopus &amp; fetta, but always ensuring we found chilled champagne and were back in our jacuzzi to watch the magical sunset. A truly rigorous schedule.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZZ9LL-FI/AAAAAAAAA2c/t7PUQl0af_M/s1600-h/794897668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8ZZ9LL-FI/AAAAAAAAA2c/t7PUQl0af_M/s200/794897668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241936424991455314" border="0" /></a>After 3-4 days of this tough life, it was time to head to Germany for a close friends wedding, and then on to Paris.<br /><br />Photos are <a href="http://camsphotolibrary.blogspot.com/2008/08/santorini-sunsets.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Worldguide is <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/08/greece.html">here</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-68243688175528217282008-08-23T14:54:00.005+04:002008-09-04T02:07:18.531+04:00Mum & Dad Russia/Ukraine Visit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8J5zPRTcI/AAAAAAAAA2E/0SM2tPRJ3i4/s1600-h/352981468605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8J5zPRTcI/AAAAAAAAA2E/0SM2tPRJ3i4/s200/352981468605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241919379893996994" border="0" /></a>At long last I had the chance to welcome both Mum &amp; Dad to Russia &amp; the Ukraine. Mum came to visit last year, but Dad’s only Russian experience was a day trip to Leningrad while training for the 1980 Olympics, and things have changed a little since then!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8J6EpHHEI/AAAAAAAAA2U/0ZtSA1vG9d0/s1600-h/384835668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8J6EpHHEI/AAAAAAAAA2U/0ZtSA1vG9d0/s200/384835668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241919384565783618" border="0" /></a>We had a packed itinerary for their 10 days in the region. We hit the <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2008/08/moscows-golden-ring-churches-galore.html">Golden Ring</a>, toured Moscow, then St Pete’s, and Kiev. With sightseeing all day, and having them meet an interminable string of my friends and nightlife by night, I think they were glad to return to the peace &amp; quiet of their yacht!<br /><br />It was great to have them here, and while I’m confident they’re still not sure why I live here, at least they have a better appreciation for some of the highlights (&amp; lowlights) of the region.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8J5z3s-tI/AAAAAAAAA2M/Cuac4qlTHdU/s1600-h/611165668605_0_BG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SL8J5z3s-tI/AAAAAAAAA2M/Cuac4qlTHdU/s200/611165668605_0_BG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241919380063582930" border="0" /></a>I have plenty of photos from <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2007/06/cams-30th-st-petersburg.html">St Petes</a> and <a href="http://intlmutt.blogspot.com/2007/05/kiev-running-in-stilettos.html">Kiev</a> from previous visits.<br /><br />See Worldguide updates for <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/08/russia.html">St Petes</a> &amp; <a href="http://camsworldguide.blogspot.com/2008/07/ukraine.html">Kiev</a>.Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534966626353067943.post-88498416138126689412008-08-16T19:55:00.004+04:002008-08-16T20:04:13.341+04:00Internet Fun- WordleThis is a cool tool by Google that I thought was fun. This is what it thought of my blog:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SKb6WUBkgII/AAAAAAAAAys/Bebf60k9Ij4/s1600-h/wordle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7eZ0f2-nqV0/SKb6WUBkgII/AAAAAAAAAys/Bebf60k9Ij4/s320/wordle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235146878104141954" border="0" /></a>Check it out at: <a href="http://wordle.net/create" target="_blank">http://wordle.net/create</a>Camhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11010257854592946284noreply@blogger.com0